A History of Magic
by Curlyjimsam
Summary: This is a collection of short stories about various events in wizarding history, though not in chronological order. I intend to have stories from as many times and places as possible.
1. England, 1070

Arrows' Biggest Fan's  
**A History of Magic  
**_A Harry Potter Fanfiction_

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is not mine, but the property of Joanne Rowling and assorted others. Some characters in this collection of stories are real historical figures and no disrespect is intended to them. Please don't send me to Azkaban.

**Author's notes:** This is a collection of short stories about various events in wizarding history. They are not in chronological (time) order because that would require writing them all first and then sorting them out. I intend to have stories from as many times and places as possible.

Want to see a certain period of history here? I will try to write if requested to by e-mail ). I may ask you to provide more information about that period if I can't find it for myself.

This story is also on Fiction Alley: Thanks to everyone who's reviewed there and/or given me ideas. Also thanks to my beta-reader and to the various writers of the history books I've used to help keep my writing accurate.

_Story One:  
England, 1070_

Dunstan O'Livandere put the last box on the pile. Life was hard in the wandsmith's, especially in summer, with an influx of new students to Hogwarts School.

Dunstan's father was at the front of the shop, selling a wand to a small boy. He had told Dunstan to pack and stack all the new wands, but that was done now. Dunstan listened to his father's mutterings as he tried to pick a wand – one that might just be the right one. It had been going on for a long time.

Dunstan had long, flaxen hair that he kept tied back with a piece of cloth when he was working. He wore a dirty linen robe and was tall and thin, but that wasn't what made people notice him. Like everyone in his family, he had large, pale eyes that many people found slightly disturbing.

There was a cheer from the front of the shop – the boy had obviously found his favoured wand. Dunstan heard the chinking of gold being exchanged by his father and the boy's, and the slamming of the door. Then he walked out into the main room, where thousands of boxes were piled, right up to the ceiling.

"Have you done it, my boy?" asked Dunstan's father. He was an elderly man with greying hair and those same, silvery eyes. He spoke softly, and more like a Saxon lord than a humble wandsmith.

"Yes, father," replied Dunstan, sweeping dust of his robes. "May I go out now?"

"Of course, of course," returned his father, but Dunstan wasn't really sure if he'd been listening. Nonetheless, he stepped out of the dark shop into the bright sunlight of Diagon Field. It was noisy and crowded – wizards and witches from all walks of life had come to trade and barter.

Dunstan didn't like the field. He much preferred to leave it and go out into the Muggule world – they had different market days. He strode quickly across the field. Men were selling broomsticks and robes and owls and cauldrons and everything else. Dunstan noticed a goblin sneaking off with an armful of gold coins, but he knew better than to stop it. It was annoying, he thought, how goblins stole things and were too dangerous to impede, but elves never stole anything and could be halted easily. Some of the Norman wizards, he heard, actually took the larger breeds of elves and, taking advantage of their willingness to serve, turned them into slaves, sometimes treated them worse than animals. It was cruel, Dunstan had decided, and would never catch on.

The only way out of the field, which was long and thin and often used for broomstick races, was through the inn to the north end. Dunstan often stopped there for a mug of ale, but today he wasn't going to. It was as crowded as anywhere else. Instead he walked right through, giving a nod to the barman and the customers he knew. Then he stepped into the Muggule world.

He walked along a few quiet streets. Nobody disturbed him. They had no reason to. He wasn't a Norman and therefore probably wasn't a danger. But when Dunstan met the Normans in a dark alleyway, it was him who was in danger.

The Muggule soldiers were off duty from their positions as guards and were stalking around the city, waiting to find some defenceless Saxon to leap on and steal from, or just beat up. Most people had the sense to get indoors when they saw – or heard - the rabble of drunken soldiers coming up the street. Dunstan, however, was thinking privately, and not paying much attention to what was going on around him.

He felt a hand strike the back of his head and he fell to the floor. Men were laughing around him. One of them kicked him. He grabbed his wand from his belt and muttered an incantation. Sparks shot from the end of the wand but didn't hit any of the men. But it was enough to make them stop what they were doing.

They started to converse, shocked, in French. Dunstan's knowledge of that language was not particularly advanced, but he had heard it often in the four years since the invasion and could get the gist of what was being said.

"STOP! Did you see that?"

"What?"

"He made some light appear from a stick of wood. Don't do anything. He might be dangerous."

"He's a magician. We should take him to the king."

"Let him rot in jail!"

The soldiers took Dunstan by the arms. He didn't struggle. He didn't know any Memory Charms, in case they saw anything else, and they would overpower him anyway – there were so many of them. He put his wand back into his belt and let them drag him through the streets towards the king's residence. It wasn't as bad as it could have been – the soldiers seemed too scared to treat him really badly.

When they arrived, the leading soldier said something to the guard on the door, who sent another guard to alert the king. After a short but nerve-racking period for Dunstan, the messenger-guard returned – this time with eight fully armed soldiers. They took Dunstan, bound him in chains, and led him down a torch lit corridor.

At the end of the passage was a great oaken door. "The king's chamber," whispered one of the guards menacingly in Dunstan's ear. He was speaking in French, so he probably didn't expect Dunstan to understand.

The door was flung open and Dunstan was led into a large room with many expensive tapestries. Each guard bowed, then Dunstan's leading chain was pulled harshly and he fell to the floor.

King William was sitting on a dais in the centre of the chamber. He looked slightly disgruntled, as if Dunstan's appearance had interrupted something he was doing. He had thick eyebrows and short hair, as well as a moustache. He was wearing a simple tunic, which made Dunstan think that he wasn't prepared for ceremonial duties such as listening to the pleas of people accused of doing evil things. He didn't much like England or English and Dunstan knew he would have no choice but to speak French.

Two men sat beside the king: on his right, a monk or priest with a tonsure, wearing a simple habit; on his left, what looked like some sort of nobleman. He had his blond hair cut short in the Norman style and was wearing Muggule clothing. His grey eyes looked piercingly over Dunstan, and in his right hand he held a staff. But it was not just a simple weapon to back up his sword, or a walking stick. It was a magic wand, and he was a wizard. Dunstan knew it, without any doubt.

"What have you done?" the king asked Dunstan in French, sounding slightly bored.

"I doubt he understands you, sire, he's only – " began the priest, but Dunstan interrupted.

"Nothing of note, your majesty," he said in his best French.

"Oh," said the king. "Then why are you here?"

"Well, I – er – I accidentally spat out some water whilst your guards were near me, giving the impression of coloured lights. Nothing more."

"Spitting!" exclaimed the priest. "A most disgusting occupation! And near the king's own soldiers, too!"

"I am but a humble peasant," Dunstan argued.

"He seems harmless enough," said the king. "Let him go, so we can discuss more important things."

The man to the king's left spoke for the first time. Taking his staff, he touched the king lightly on the shoulder with it. "He is very dangerous, sire," he said softly. "He should be disposed of."

Dunstan knew then that the wizard knew what he was.

"You know executions are not your policy," interrupted the monk to the king. "At most give him a month in jail."

But the king had already been bewitched by the wizard's power. "Malfoi is right," he said. "I will make sure he is destroyed – but I will do it quietly."


	2. France, 1944

**Author's notes: **This story was written following a request by Phineas Black on FictionAlley. All due respect to him.

_Story Two  
France, 1944_

Luc Bonaccord looked over the place that had once been his home. Two deep trenches faced each other, each filled with uniformed Muggle men; gunfire was everywhere between them.

Was this what his five-year departure had turned his home into? He had left Switzerland for a break from warfare, not to be caught up in the silly quarrellings of Muggles.

But already he knew he was wrong. This was no mere squabble, this was a terrible fight. The two armies that faced each other look tired and worn, much like many of the wizards had back in Switzerland.

Amidst the gunshots, Luc did not hear the _crack_ from behind him. The first alert he had of the presence of Albus Dumbledore was a hand on his shoulder.

"I warned you," said Dumbledore. "I told you you would not find rest here."

Luc turned to face the other wizard, with his long auburn hair and beard and colourful clothing. "Why is this happening?"

Dumbledore hesitated, then said, "It is nothing to do with Grindelwald." He said the name like a German word. "But the man behind it is of very similar ideals."

Luc had left his quiet country home five years ago, in order to try to combat a force that was gathering in the mountains: Marcus Grindelwald, an evil, twisted wizard from a small village of the same name. Together with other Aurors, trained fighters from around the world, he had launched attack after attack on this man. But nothing had happened. It didn't seem like anything was going to happen either.

"Are you sure this is nothing to do with Grindelwald?" he asked his English friend.

"It is possible, I daresay," replied Dumbledore. "But I doubt it."

"He hates Muggles. What would be better that to let them tear themselves apart?"

"Maybe. But Grindelwald is not the only evil in this world. There are always others. We wizards are, have always been, an almost insignificant proportion of the population."

Luc looked back at the fighting. Aeroplanes were massing overhead now, great metal beasts of death. Even as they watched, one exploded in a ball of brilliant orange fire.

"How come they don't see us?" he asked.

Dumbledore smiled. "Even you should know the answer to that, my friend. We are on a part of your land that you charmed invisible to Muggles. There is no way they could see us."

"Will the fighting ever stop?"

"It always does, for a time. One day some wizard, of much greater powersthan myselfI should think, will defeat Grindelwald and we will have peace again. And one of these armies will crush the other to dust, and the Muggles will also have peace. But there will be another evil soon enough. Maybe it is even right under our noses and we don't know it. But it will reveal itself in time."

Luc nodded, and swallowed. The Muggles may not have been able to see his house, but they had reduced it to rubble and ashes anyway. "What shall we do in the meantime?" he questioned.

"Return, and fight the present evil. The more pressure we put on it, the quicker we can destroy it. Let us return to Grindelwald."

Luc Bonaccord looked back on his land one last time, then Apparated away to fight his last battles.


	3. Scotland, 1014

A/N: Long time no update. I sort of fell away from fanfiction, becoming more concerned with original works, and presumed that nobody would really notice or care. But, apparently, I have received quite a few reviews in my absence, which I swear I ought to have been alerted off my email - but hey ho, apparently not. Anyway, here's the first of a couple more short stories I've just dug up that I've apparently never posted here - though I must admit that it's not quite so original. 

_Story Three  
Scotland, 1014_

"Salazar!" Godric Gryffindor called out his friend's name as he walked down the darkened corridor, wand alit. "Salazar, where are you?"

He came to a door at the end of the corridor, and pushed his way through. "Salazar!" He looked around "Salazar …"

The other wizard was sitting on the hard stone floor, holding something – something large – which Godric couldn't quite make out in the reduced light. "Godric," Salazar replied slowly.

"Salazar, where have you been? I've been looking everywhere …"

He shone his wand down onto the thing Salazar was carrying, and it became clear what it was. A small body. The body of a student.

"He's dead …" Godric breathed.

"They are all," Salazar answered. "Every single one."

"All of the students?"

"No. Only the – only the Mudbloods." Salazar spoke this final word with a hatred Godric had never seen or heard from anyone else.

"The Muggleborns? Who –"

Salazar cut him off. "I killed them," he said harshly.

Godric felt tears welling up in his eyes. Suddenly, in a flash of anger, he grabbed his sword from his belt and swung it at Salazar –

The other wizard was on his feet in an instant. He had always been the more powerful, magically if not physically or mentally. He deflected Godric's swing easily with his staff, then turned it upon his old friend before speaking a single word of Latin …

Godric felt himself flung backwards against the wall. But before Salazar could do anything else he was on his feet again, his own wand out now, pointing it at Slytherin … there was a flash of light from Salazar's staff, but Godric deflected it easily before sending out a curse of his own … jets of light were flying everywhere, illuminating the dark room … but then Godric fell backwards once more as another spell hit him in the stomach … he lay on the floor, panting.

"Yield," he said. "I yield."

"A good choice, Gryffindor," Salazar murmured, squatting beside him. "I see you value your life more than that of your students'."

"They are already lost, if you are telling me the truth," Godric said, sitting up. "There was nothing I could do. But I will see you punished. All this dabbling in the Dark Arts has turned you into a murderer, Salazar!"

Slytherin silenced him with a wave of his hand. "Calm yourself. I do not think I will be punished. Many members of the Wizards' Council share very similar views on those of Muggle heritage."

"But why, Salazar?" said Godric, almost sobbing now. "Why did you have to kill them?"

"You know well enough my opinions," Salazar replied silkily.

"You were my friend …"

"Even a champion of the weak such as yourself should see that they are a danger to our community. We cannot train them in the arts of magic. They will turn on us, driven by their family history's, and some of them will be so strong they will destroy us completely …" Salazar spat on the ground.

"That's not true," said Godric, feeling more confident now. He had won this argument before, though Slytherin had always refused to admit it. "I've told you, there are three possibilities. Three things that our world can do with Muggleborn wizards. One – ignore them, let them live as Muggles. But one of them, one day, will learn how to use his powers properly. And then – who can say what will happen? He may use them for ill; he may use them to fight us. Two – kill them, or imprison them, and only give the Muggle population a reason to hate us – put our lives in danger! Three – take them into our schools, take them into Hogwarts. Nurture them to use their powers well, teach them respect for our kind. And even if they do go wrong, even if they do reveal the secrets of our world or turn on us, at least we will know where to find them, know what they can do. At least they won't just emerge when we're least expecting it, because we hadn't bothered to keep an eye on them!"

"But …" spluttered Salazar. "But … they are an inferior race …"

At this, Godric stood up, drawing himself to his full height. "Do not give me those lies!" he roared. "Do not pretend that the Muggles were not here before us, and will notprobably still be here when we are gone! Do not think that just because you can manipulate the world in ways they cannot that you are somehow better! This is not a world of Squibs, with a few who retain their original magical powers, as you may like to imagine! Any fool can see that the Muggle population outnumbers ours by several hundred to one! Once upon a time there were no wizards! Once … and then one, and then a few more … they discovered the secrets of magic … they learned to use their powers – as we are still learning to this day – and they became wizards! We are all Muggleborns! There are no purebloods!"

There was silence, and then Slytherin smiled. He stood up, clutching his staff. "Continue with your delusions if you wish, my lord Gryffindor. But you will not continue to pass these delusions onto my students! I shall become the sole leader of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And when I die, that honour shall pass to my son, who even now is training to take his rightful place in that position. And the job shall stay in my family, with people of ambition, not with no-hopers like yourself, for evermore! My heirs, at least, can be trusted to keep my beliefs alive!" Salazar walked slowly to the far end of the chamber, then turned to face Gryffindor. "Unless, of course, I lose this duel. But I don't think that's very likely, do you?"

"You always were a snake," spat Godric. "Only ever thinking about achieving power for yourself!"

Salazar smiled again. "And isn't that the way to achieve true satisfaction? Or no? Is it through courageous deeds? Ha. What you call courage is only stupidity."

Godric said nothing.

"Your have no argument?" continued Salazar. "Then let the fight for Hogwarts begin!"

And the two were duelling once more, yelling spell words, ducking, diving, swinging swords …

Godric knew no fear. All he knew was that he needed to get this madman out of here as soon as possible, for the good of everyone … he ran at Salazar, his sword aloft, preparing to bring it down on the other wizard's head … but then Slytherin hit him with a jinx … he was thrown backwards … he was up again, he was running. Salazar was hissing at him, trying to put him off with his uncanny ability to speak like a snake … but this wasn't enough to scare someone like Godric, he continued to shoot spell after spell towards his opponent … Salazar kicked away the bodies on the floor to try to avoid Gryffindor's attacks, but then he slipped, he was lying on his back, at Godric's mercy …

Godric walked up to his opponent, whose staff was now lying helplessly a few feet away from him. He placed his sword at Slytherin's throat.

He was crying now, openly. "Salazar," he said, his voice trembling. "Salazar … I can't kill you. I can't. You … you were my friend." He paused. "Salazar – just go. Go. Go away from Hogwarts, and never return. Never."

He stepped back. Slytherin stood up and walked quickly and silently to the door. Then he turned.

"Before I go, Gryffindor, there's something I should tell you. You may have noticed that I often – disappear. That is because I retreat to a room I built for myself when we first constructed this castle all those years ago. My own Chamber of Secrets. I'm sorry to have deceived you for so long. You can look for the Chamber if you like. I assure you you won't find it. But if anything ever happens at Hogwarts, if there are ever rumours of a mysterious beast killing our inferior friends – then think of the Chamber. Think of me."

And with that, Salazar Slytherin turned and was gone.


	4. The North Sea, 1473

_Story Four  
The North Sea, 1473_

Admiral Black smiled as he noticed a small speck appear on the horizon. Azkaban. The last great stronghold of the goblins. It was all that stood between wizardkind and final victory over that wretched lesser race. And he was about to take it.

Black had waited all his life for an event like this. Born into society, head boy at that greatest of schools, Durmstrang, leaving to join the magical army, and then finally to be chosen by the Wizards' Council to lead its ships into battle … and now. Now, about to receive the jewel in the crown. History would remember him.

"Demere, get here!" Black barked, and a small man robed in plain black rushed over to meet him from somewhere on the rocking ship.

"Tell me again about … about the place we go to attack, captain," Black ordered.

"Azkaban," said Demere, sounding somewhat overexcited. "From Gobbledegook _azke aban_, literally meaning 'shadow fortress', or possibly from _ask ibban_, 'dark rock' or 'dark island'. A fortress built two hundred and fifty years ago in the middle of the North Sea, and used by the Köbelv goblins as a way of protecting their assets in northern Europe, thus being one of the most important strategic bases ever constructed. It has also been suggested by some of the leading wizard scholars that the fortress may be used by the goblins as a means of extracting some sort of hidden treasure from beneath the sea floor. Built with the finest iron- and stonework, Azkaban Fortress is notoriously hard to take. Over the years, as many as a dozen wizarding generals are said to have been defeated whilst trying …"

"Yes, yes," said Black hastily. It wasn't that this put him off or anything – indeed, it would only increase the rewards when he took the island. "What forces do they have?" he asked. He knew already of course – he didn't bring so many ships out when he didn't actually know what he was doing. But it was good to be sure, all the same.

"The fortress probably holds between five hundred and one thousand goblin soldiers, most of whom have fled from our previous victories and many of which are therefore in something of a bad state. Only five of their most influential leaders remain. This contrasts with our own fleet of just under twelve hundred men. They may have as many as a dozen ships, which in all likelihood they will send at us in an attempt to see us of early."

"Firepower?" Black inquired.

"As previously, these goblins are well-versed in the magical arts and many of their soldiers are expected to be armed with wands. They will also no doubt have cannon, those crude replacements for magic which are infamous for the danger caused to the user and their limited use. But the goblins love all things made of metal, and these are no exception."

"How will we penetrate the fortress?"

"The walls are of solid rock, many feet thick, and in any case will be magically strengthened. Our best chance of getting inside is through the doors – although these are reinforced with iron, the goblins are not nearly as good at working their magic with wood as they are with metal. Our forces are superior, although if it transpires that we will not be able to win through today, we could easily choose to instead lay siege to the island, in the hope that …"

"Thankyou, captain, that will do," said Black, and the little man hurried off. Captain Demere was, it had to be admitted, somewhat annoying, but he was also incredibly useful, a library on legs. Black strode up to the very front of the ship, and looked out at the rapidly approaching island. "Let the attack begin," he said simply.

The ships rolled out over the waves, sails billowing, flags flying. Azkaban Island was getting larger every second. Suddenly, as had been predicted, there was something else. Rounding the featureless rock, which was topped with an imposing stone fortress, twelve enemy ships were approaching the wizarding fleet.

Admiral Black retreated to somewhere less conspicuous. He hadn't come here to get killed, and had no intention of that changing now. Death was the job of the common soldier. He would be quite happy standing near the centre of the boat, as far away from the roaring cannons and spitting wands of the enemy as conceivably possibly, all the time shouting orders to his crew.

He barked a single word, and every sailor who wasn't involved in manoeuvring the ship jumped to attention, moving to the sides of the vessel. On the other boats, men were doing the same. Every wizard had his wand out and was ready to scream curses as soon as the enemy drew near enough at the command was given. Black strode between the ranks of nervously waiting men.

"We are drawing ever closer to our goal," he bellowed in the voice of the admiral he was. "The enemy have sent a small party of ships to attempt to face us off early. _They will not succeed!_"

His words seemed to spark courage into the men, and as one they let out a cheer. The abruptly, just as the shout was dying down, there was an explosion from nearby. A cannon ball soared from one of the enemy ships, and landed with a resounding splash in the water, perilously close to Black's own boat.

"ENGAGE AT WILL!" the admiral barked. "DESTROY EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM!"

Suddenly the air was alight with multicoloured sparks and jets of light. Wizards and goblins alike were being hit, falling down to the decks or into the icy waters. More explosions rocked the air as cannon roared and badly constructed wands backfired. A spell shot worrying close to Black's own head; he ducked to avoid it and watched as it slammed into the mast behind him. Thankfully, it held. Forgetting the architecture of the ship, the admiral continued to bellow orders and even fired a few shots of his own into the smoky haze. He hit one of his own men with a Stunning Charm. "_Get out of the way, you idiot!_" he yelled, as the wizard crumpled to the floor.

There was a crash, and Black spun around. One of his own ships had been hit in a critical spot by a goblin cannon ball. It was slowly become submerged under the waves, water pouring in through the gaping hole. The admiral ignored it. He could let the ship sink. But he couldn't let his heart do the same.

The men seemed to be thinking the same; they were fighting now with a new vigour. Most of the goblin ships were by now operating with next to no crew, and certainly not enough sailors to fight. Some of the wizards were pounding shot after shot into the sides of the enemy ships, while others were conjuring shields to protect themselves and their enemies. A goblin boat went down, and another, their crews screaming as they descended into the water, many of them already in pain. Black ducked another stray curse, and deflected a third with a hasty Shield Charm. Across from him, a goblin cannon exploded, sending bits of metal and wood into the wizarding fleet and – more importantly – the boat it was itself mounted on. Some goblins were trying to board the wizards' ships on gangplanks and bits of wood from the wreckage of their own boats, but they were being cut down by spells and magical swords as they did so, and falling down into the sea.

On a nearby ship, Black suddenly noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Standing there was the leader of the now almost defeated goblin navy – Admiral Nolbig. Nolbig the Nasty. He may have been short, but he was deadly – an old adversary of Black. Many times the two had faced each other in battle, but neither had yet succeeded in killing his opponent. Nolbig was smiling, a wand – not one of wood, but of gleaming polished metal – held aloft in his grubby hand. Black raised his wand, preparing to deflect whatever his opposite number sent at him, but before he had a chance –

A soldier standing somewhere to the wizarding admiral's right shot a single curse at the goblin leader. Even the finest goblin armour was no use. Nolbig the Nasty toppled, and fell to the deck, his wand rolling away.

The wizard who had killed him looked pleased with himself, and turned to smile proudly at his admiral. Black knocked him down with the same killing curse the man had just used. He didn't like people to take his prey from him like than. Besides, he had plenty of other men to spare.

Slowly, what was left of the goblin fleet started to retreat back towards the island. The first part of the battle had been won.

Black returned to his position at the bow. The only real suitable place to land was on the other side of the island. The rest of the barren rock was edged with high cliffs, unassailable for the unprepared sailor. It had probably been a mistake to attack from this direction. Nevertheless … it could be done.

As the boats rounded the island, Black's fears were confirmed. The goblins were taking this as an opportunity to fire more cannon balls at them. Blasted things, Black thought, and smiled at the pun. Then he turned around, and shouted:

"Send out the winged horses!"

The idea was to attack the fortress from the air, knocking down unsuspected goblins from their tower. There were around a hundred wizards in the cavalry, most of them on horses, but a few on hippogriffs and one brave soul on a griffin, spread around the various ships. Black watched as the beasts rose steadily into the air, rocking the boats as they left. Their commander, General Mallock, would lead them now. And he would lead them well. Black and Mallock were old friends.

The ships continued, as did the goblin's attempted bombardment. But their cannon shots all missed, all splashing into the water short of reaching the fleet. Black surveyed the battle in the air. The hippogriffs were picking goblins up from the ground and smashing them down on the rocks; whilst the flying horses, many of their riders armed with magical self-firing bows, were attempting to land on the top of the fortress itself. It seemed like a win for the wizards could be the only the result. But then a cry rose up from the men on board the ships:

"A dragon! They have a dragon!"

Sure enough, a huge black beast with bronze horns and a ridged back was rising up from the castle. For the first time, Black was struck with something like fear. The things this creature could do …

The dragon was leaping at the horses in midair, taking them down like flies. Black put his head in his hands. They couldn't … they couldn't …

He looked up again. A goblin seemed to riding the beast, though he didn't have much control. In fact, as Black watched, he fell from the dragon's back, down into the sea below. But then a blast of fire erupted from the dragon's mouth – the admiral looked on in horror as it engulfed a nearby ship. This was far more dangerous than any cannon.

Then the dragon turned. It clearly wasn't selective about its prey. Now the fire from its jaws was aimed not at the ships, but at the goblins. They were screaming as they too were engulfed by the flames. Some of them were firing at them with their cannons and their wands, though they were having little effect but to bait the beast further. Black breathed a sigh of relief. Not only had the dragon turned on its own supposed owners, it was now causing a distraction in addition …

The ships had now rounded the island. The pitiful remainder of the goblin fleet was floating there, its crew fled to the black-walled fortress, apart from those so cowardly they had attempted to desert the island altogether, making away in some of the smaller of their boats. There was no point chasing them in Black's mind. He didn't waste time on enemies who could only run.

"Lower the boats!" the wizards' admiral commanded. He checked he had all of his own equipment – wand, cutlass. He watched as the men slowly descended into the landing boats and started to row towards Azkaban Island, then followed suit, getting into a boat with his most trusted captains. He nodded to them, and tapped the vessel once with his wand. It sped across the water … closer … closer …

They were there. Black leapt out of the boat. His own superior forces were pushing forwards, forcing down any goblins who dared try and stop them. He followed, shooting down the occasional enemy with spells from his wand, shouting out orders as he did so.

"The gate! Head for the gate!"

He was commanding his troops confidently, but all the same he couldn't help feeling a bit apprehensive. They could kill any number of goblins, so long as they could reach them, but already most of the enemy's forces had retreated inside the fortress. The walls of Azkaban Castle would not be broken. As his strategist had suggested, their only real chance was to break the gate – or to lay siege. Black didn't want to try for the latter. This was war, and he wanted to be remembered for a heroic attack and victory, not sitting around an island in boats until the enemy ran out of food.

His men had reached the front gate. It was a wooden door of huge proportions, backed up by metal supports and a great iron portcullis. Even this would not be taken easily. To further complicate matters, the goblins were defending their fortress with every last ounce of strength. Arrows and spells shot out of narrow windows in the castle walls, every now and again hitting wizard soldiers. And the goblins had worse weapons. As the men battered at the gate with spells, hoping for a breakthrough, rocks and boiling liquids were poured on them from above.

Through the din of the battle, Black heard a clattering of hooves behind him. He turned around; General Mallock, the cavalry leader, had landed on his winged horse. He dismounted, and saluted the admiral.

"We have penetrated the fortress from the top," he told Black, smiling as he reported the good news. "Even now my men are pouring into the upper chambers of the castle."

"That is good," said Black, though he did not smile in return. While confident in his friend the general's abilities, he didn't want too much of the glory to go to the other officer. "But I daresay you will not be able to take the castle on your own?"

"No, of course not," replied Mallock, looking slightly annoyed.

"No, you don't have nearly enough men. Don't worry, I am here. It will only be a short time before my own men break through the lower defences."

"I'll try to distract the goblins," Mallock said.

"Yes, that will do. But … stay away from their inner chambers. I think it's only fair that I may take the final blow to their leadership, don't you?"

"Yes sir," said Mallock, though he looked annoyed now. "I will. But you owe me one."

And with that, he saluted again, mounted his steed, and took flight.

Black turned to face his own troops again. He collected himself, then called in a loud voice: "HALT!"

Every last wizard snapped to attention.

"This random firing at will will not cause much damage!" Black barked. "I expect more!"

The soldiers looked confused.

"You must attack," Black continued, "as a team! Wands out!"

Every wizard had his wand out already, but now they all held them in an offensive position, each one pointing towards the gate.

"Reductor curses!" the admiral yelled. "Aim for the very centre of the gate! With luck, we can break it!"

He inspected the troops and the doorway silently for a few seconds, then bellowed, "FIRE!"

"REDUCTO!" shouted the soldiers as one. Their spells hit the door with stunning force: it shuddered, but did not break.

"Again!" Black roared. "FIRE!"

"REDUCTO!" There was a crash, but again the gate remained intact.

"FIRE!"

"REDUCTO!"

"FIRE!"

"REDUCTO!"

Again and again the spells rained upon the wood and metal, but they seemed to be having little effect. With each curse, the soldiers' energy lessened, and all the while the goblins continued to shoot down their attackers one by one.

"FIRE!"

"REDUCTO!"

Still no effect. Black gritted his teeth. They had to break through. They could not give up. This time … surely …

"FIRE!"

"REDUCTO!"

Yes – the gate was broken, a gaping hole blasted into it. A cheer rose up from the men as they rushed forward, ripping away the planks of wood, breaking the metal supports which remained with further barrages of spells from their wands. Black breathed a sigh of relief. They were through.

Men were pouring into the castle as goblins were pouring out, but the wizards were filled with a new courage, not to mention having superior numbers. They forced the enemy back into their fortress, or else cut them down with swords as they ran out. Black pushed his way through the ranks of soldiers, shouting "With me!" as he did so, and knocking goblins out of his way. Now to march to the Azkaban's fabled great hall, which no human being before him had ever seen and lived to talk about it afterwards. The admiral forced his way through the corridors, blasted his way through a magnificent pair of gold-plated doors, and entered the marvellous chamber to come face to face with what remained of the goblin leadership.

"Admiral Black," said one particularly worn-looking goblin "And –" another high-ranking wizard had entered into the highly decorated hall – "General Mallock."

"General Bugo," Black replied. "General Braknash. General Nagnok. I trust you have the papers of surrender ready."

Braknash, a younger but no less battle-scarred goblin, extended a piece of parchment. "Alas," he spat. "You have won. This time."

"This is the final victory," Black replied, taking a quill the goblin general offered him, and signing the treaty before him after reading through it quickly. The terms were obvious – total surrender. "There will be no other chance for you to win."

"Maybe that is what you think," Braknash said coolly, as he and the other goblin generals signed the parchment, followed by General Mallock. "What are you going to do with us?"

"I think this fortress will make a very nice addition to our army's collection," Black replied, smiling. "Even if we do not use it to fight, it would be very convenient for locking our enemies up in. Azkaban. Maybe they will rename it Fort Black. Nevertheless, with adequate defences it is impossible to take alive. Unfortunately, it will also be impossible to escape from." He nodded to Mallock, who clicked his fingers.

"Take them to the dungeons," the general ordered his soldiers, and, with that, the goblin leaders were handcuffed, chained up, and led away. Caught in their own castle. Black couldn't help grinning to himself at the irony.

In his euphoria at finally taking the castle, Black failed to notice one small detail. When the attack had begun, there had been five goblin leaders in Azkaban Fortress. One of them, Admiral Nolbig, had already been killed. Three, Generals Bugo, Braknash and Nagnok, had been imprisoned. But the fifth had escaped.

Sailing quickly away on a small ship, Urgus the Undelightful felt a strange hint of confidence as looked back at the fortress he had left. Azkaban had been taken. But the goblins would be back.


End file.
